Lines Get Crossed
by Minxy
Summary: Spike goes on the defensive, and Dawn doesn't take it well. A sequel to "The End of the Line," by request.


Lines Get Crossed

Lines Get Crossed

by

Minx Trinket

Disclaimer, à la Spike: "No, they're not bloody mine. They belong to that ponce Whedon. An' I'm not making a profit off 'em, so sod off!"

Rating: R, though outside of the language, this is tamer than the last installment. (That Spike! Such a foul mouth. And Dawn's picking up his bad habits.)

Spoilers and continuity: This is a sequel to my short-short "The End of the Line." It picks up some time (actually, 39 days) after "The Gift." So if you haven't seen 'em all, don't read this!

Question: Am I dating myself by mentioning Drakkar, or is it still what the nancy boys wear?

Summary: I never really thought of "The End of the Line" as part of a series, but when I got feedback asking for more, I asked myself, "What _would_ happen next?" So here it is. After a disturbingly _adult _encounter, Spike tries to push Dawn away, and boy is she mad. This was inspired, in part, by a conversation I had with a friend about how often, in the Jossiverse, evil looks a heck of a lot like immaturity.

Dedication: To all those who asked for more, and, as ever, to my muse Insomnia.

"Thanks for coming."

"S-sure," Tara nodded, hovering near the door to the Summers' place, shifting her weight from foot to foot. 

"Can I get you a cup of tea or something?"

"No, thanks."

"Why don't you, er, have a seat?" Spike backed into the dim living room and gestured at the couch. Not looking at him, she sidled over to the sofa and perched herself on the corner nearest the door. Tara knew the others trusted Spike, and knew she owed him one or two or eight herself, and he'd been so good to Dawn, and all of that should make a difference somehow. But when she looked at him, she still thought _VAMPIRE!_ And now she was alone with him.

Spike fussed a little with the coffee table, keeping out of Tara's personal space. "I'm sorry you had to come all this way, but, well, you know. Sunlight."

"Yeah," Tara replied, a bit too brightly. She forced herself to look at him. The vampire was staring at his own toes. "You- you said it's about Dawn."

"Yeah." He fell silent again, and started rocking back and forth, heel to toe, heel to toe, his hands crammed deep in the pockets of his black jeans. Just as Tara thought he'd forgotten her altogether, he said, "It's like this, y'see. I think maybe I'm needing some help with her."

Tara blinked, surprised. A month ago Spike had snarled like a mother lion at the thought that _anyone_ would take care of Dawn but him. Calling Xander and Giles "ponce" and "nancy" and all those other British words for wimp, he'd argued convincingly, if rudely, that he was the best-qualified person for the job, that she'd be safest with him, that Buffy would've wanted it that way. Dawn, surprising everyone, had agreed. Tara could still picture her, huddled on a stool in a corner of the Magic Box, saying: "Spike. I want Spike with me." Giles, too hollow with grief to protest, had given in to her. Xander had left in a huff. Spike had taken the little girl home.

As gently as she could, Tara asked, "What happened?"

"Nothing! Nothing!" Wild-eyed, Spike backed away, waving his hands in denial. He bumped into a chair, jumped, turned to punch it, stopped, looked like he might clobber it anyway, then dropped his hands, sighing. He sat on the offending furniture and clasped his hands, leaning forward over his knees. For the first time since she'd arrived, he looked her in the eyes. "Truth is, I think maybe she's getting too attached to me and all."

Confused, Tara cocked her head at him, and was about to ask him what he meant, when he blurted: "It's understandable, I mean, she being at that age and all. But it's getting out of hand. I think maybe having other people around, maybe, she'd not be so…." He faltered, frowning.

As his words sank in, Tara's mouth fell open. "Spike, are you saying something, something _physical_ happened?"

Looking pained, he muttered, "This morning, Li'l Bit tried to crawl into bed with me, literally and metaphorically."

"_You didn't!_"

"NO! I didn't! I swear to you I didn't!"

Tara leapt to her feet. "You swear?"

"By all that's bloody unholy I swear that nothing, _nothing_, happened."

"Good!"

"But if I hadn't've woken up when I did Ol' Fang might've gone ahead without me."

"_Spike!_"

"I know you're playing on the other team, love, but you know it's a fact of nature that the brain is not in charge when it comes to us blokes."

Tara covered her ears. "I am not hearing this."

"Tara, please, _please!_" Spike stumbled off the chair onto his knees and held his hands out, pleading. "I'd never hurt her, you know that. What she needs, what _we_ need is other people around. She needs a family. You of all people should understand that. Couldn't you and Will come to stay for a while? A little while, just 'til she gets this crazy notion out of her head?"

Slowly, Tara let her hands fall to her sides. She looked at Spike, pursing her lips. He raised his eyebrows imploringly.

"I'll talk to Willow," she said.

Spike's shoulders drooped with relief. "Thank you, thank you," he sighed, then switched tracks suddenly. "But don't tell--"

"Anyone else?" she asked. "Don't worry. I wouldn't want the Summers' vacuum to have to deal with what would happen if Xander found out."

As soon as Dawn closed the front door behind her, she was nearly bowled over by a blinding flash of orange.

"Dawnieeeeeeee!" Willow cried, hugging her and hopping in place at the same time. "Dawnie Dawnie Dawnie Dawnie!"

"Willie!' Dawn cried back, "Willie snorting coffee!"

Willow laughed and held Dawn by the shoulders at arm's length. "No, I haven't but, ooo, sounds fun."

Giggling, Dawn asked, "What are you doing here?"

Spike appeared over Willow's shoulder. "The Wicca are moving in for a while."

Dawn's smile faded. "What?"

"Yeah, y'see, it's like this," Willow burbled, in that high-pitched, rapid-fire way that meant she was lying like a cheap rug. "It's like middle of the summer semester and the dorms are supposed to be like empty but in fact they're full of exchange students and high school debate teams running around and having water balloon fights and I'm taking organic chemistry over the summer 'cause I thought hey peace and quiet right but boy was I wrong cause hello craziness and so I thought maybe Tara 'n me'd stay with you for a couple of weeks and whadd'ya think?"

Dawn fixed Spike with a narrow-eyed stare. Silently, she accused him. He swallowed and looked away. "Sure," she said flatly. "Sounds great."

"Oh, awesome!" Willow spouted, "It'll be so much fun I mean I've gotta study a lot and stuff but I'll take lots of breaks and we'll braid your hair and make popcorn and watch every John Cusack movie ever!"

Dawn forced a smile. "Cool. 'Scuse me." She pulled herself from Willow's grip, feeling only a little guilty as the witch's face fell, and stomped up the stairs. She went to her room, made a point of _not_ slamming the door, threw her bookbag on the floor and threw open her closet. She started rooting among the hangers for anything black, slinky, tiny. There wasn't much, but she started throwing things on the bed.

She noticed Spike when he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed high across his chest, but ignored him and continued with her foraging.

"How was school?" he asked.

"It's summer school. It's full of morons."

"Yeah, well," he said, trying to sound both stern and casual and miserably failing at both, "you missed a lot this year. Important to make it all up."

"So they say."

He paused, watching her hold experimental outfits up to herself and look at the effect in the mirror, frowning, tilting her head this way and that, flipping her hair. "What's all this then?" he asked.

Without turning to look at him, she said lightly, "Got a date tonight."

"With who?"

"Guy from school."

"Thought you said they were all morons."

She shrugged, tossed aside a filmy pink skirt, picked up a teeny black one. 

"Has he got a name?" Spike asked.

Dawn threw all of the clothes back on the bed and stalked straight for him. Just as he thought she would crash into him, she stopped, grabbing the door handle. "Got to change," she said, and used the door to bulldoze him out into the hallway. She paused on her side of the shut door, listening. She heard him mutter, "For fuck's sake!" and stomp away. Satisfied, Dawn returned to her primping.

At 8:05 PM, Trent Gillingham strutted up the path to Dawn Summers' house, unaware of the terror that awaited him. At the door, he tried to arrange himself into an appropriately cool slouch and to adopt an expression that said, "Yeah, you're cool, I guess, whatever." He rang the doorbell. He waited.

The door burst open and Billy Idol's Evil Twin shouted: "_Who the fuck are you?_"

Trent lost his cool, and nearly lost his lunch.

"I… I… I…" he stuttered, blinking at the bleached, black-clad menace whose eyes were burning holes into his head. _This must be the wrong place_, he thought, _gotta be the wrong place_.

"Oh," the menace said. "You must be the moron. DAWN!"

"Coming!" Dawn shouted, from deep inside the house, and the man in the doorway continued to glare at him. _Is he_, Trent wondered, watching his nostrils flare, _is he sniffing me?_

Dawn, a little breathless, appeared in the doorway and shoved the monster aside. "Hey Trent. Cool shirt! Don't mind him, it's just my Uncle William. William the Bloody Pain in the Ass. Ready to go?"

"Uh, sure," Trent said, very, very sure.

"Hold on a moment, _Trent_," Uncle William said, and, grabbing Dawn by the arm, slammed the door in his face.

"_What_ is your _problem?_" Dawn snapped, yanking her arm from Spike's grip. 

"That's your date?"

"Yes, Einstein, that's my date."

"I don't like him."

"I don't think I care."

"He smells like breath mints and hormones and bloody Drakkar Noir."

"You _smelled _him? You are so gross sometimes."

"Look, we were supposed to--"

"No, _you_ look," Dawn growled, sticking a finger in his face. "I'm a normal, fifteen year old girl and I'm going on a date with a normal fifteen year old boy just like _everybody_ wants me to so _BACK OFF!_" And with that, she yanked the door open and stormed out of the house, leaving Spike clutching helplessly at thin air. He stuck his head out the door and watched her as she bounced down the path, flipped her hair, and laughed flirtatiously at the pathetic pup she called a date.

"I want you home at eleven!" he shouted after her.

Her answer drifted back to him on the cool evening breeze: "Whatever…."

At 1:15, Dawn slipped quietly into the house, shut the door carefully behind her, and turned to find Willow staring at her from the couch.

"Hey," Willow said.

"Hey," Dawn replied. "Didn't think you'd be up."

"All nighter," Willow said, gesturing to the book in her lap.

"Oh."

"Dawn."

Dawn cringed despite herself at the sound of his voice. She turned and saw him in the dining room, arms crossed, leaning way, way back in his chair and scowling.

"Yeah?" she said, hoping she sounded mean.

"We were supposed to patrol tonight," he said.

"Oh. I forgot," she shrugged, and breezed past him into the kitchen. She could feel his dark eyes on her as she went to the refrigerator and took out a carton of milk. She hadn't forgotten. How could she forget? Every night since Buffy had…gone, Spike had been taking her through the moves, teaching her what she needed to know to defend herself and then some, teaching her the things Buffy had always kept her from. _Gotta be able to take care of yourself,_ Spike told her, and here, standing in the kitchen, pouring a glass of milk and shaking with fury, she couldn't agree more.

"You're never going to get any better at slaying if you don't practice," he said quietly.

"Y'know, I've been thinking," Dawn said brightly. "Maybe it would help if I dyed my hair blonde and bought some halter tops, hm? Maybe then I'd be a better slayer. Whadd'ya think?"

Spike flinched, but said insistently, "It's _important_, Nibblet."

Dawn put the milk away calmly and, raising her glass, turned a blank face on him. "Fuck patrolling, Spike," she said easily, "and fuck you."

She thought, for a split second, that chip or no chip he would tear her throat out. Instead, he leapt out of the chair, grabbed his coat off the rack by the door and stomped out of the house, slamming the door. She closed her eyes and sipped at the cool milk wondering why, if this was victory, she suddenly felt so hollow.

Spike crashed through the bushes, not caring if he woke the dead themselves and muttering under his breath all the while. When he finally reached the grave he sought, he stomped up to the tombstone, shoved his hands into his coat pockets and scowled.

"Well, Slayer," he said to the stone. "Looks like you've managed to bugger me again."

Buffy's headstone did not reply, just like it didn't reply the dozen other times he'd come to yell at it, just like her pictures and her mannequin had never answered him in all those desperate nights of longing. "Is it some secret Slayer power I've never heard of before, the ability to turn a man into a sodding ninny? 'Cause you seem to be quite good at it. Does it feel good to know I'm on your list of conquests? Have you nailed my bollocks to your wall next to Ponce Number One and Ponce Number Two? I'll bet you have, bloody bitch." Spike stomped viciously at the ground above her body a few times, then, realizing he felt no better, knelt and regarded the flattened grass. 

"Why me?" he asked it. He plucked futilely at the broken blades, trying to restore them. "Why'd she pick me?"

He turned to the stone again and said quietly, "You turn a man's life fucking upside down and then you leave him. Tell me, is that supposed to be romantic or something?"

He shuffled on his knees right up to the silent stone. "Is it supposed to be clever? Like bloody Socrates or something, giving me questions instead of answers? Alright, here's a bloody question for you: _what do I do with her now?_ Now that you've drawn me into the web, made me protect her, made me love her like she's my own, how the hell do I take care of her? There's a reason my kind doesn't have babies, Summers. We're no good at this sort of thing. We're not equipped." 

With a ragged sigh, he put his hands on the top of the stone, then leaned forward, slowly, and let his forehead press the rough granite. He saw his own tear fall away and sink into the earth below and whispered, "I'm just a kid meself, Summers. I'm still just a bloody kid."


End file.
